I decided I really like the word "light,"
and I hope it likes me back.
It's not about life,
but about the objects that make it great,
like the sun and lampshades.

Light makes me feel inspired.
It makes me want to run
but also stand still.

Put light on me
like a dress,
to dance around
and take pictures with.

"I need health"
is what I wrote on my desk,
so that I won't die
being the same as I lived.
Repair my skin,
repair my sins.
I am falling to the ground.
Give me a change of self.
I can hardly stand these pins.

I want to be what I can,
so much so that truth
will drip off my skin.
And you won't deny that this reality
is taking over me again.

I am a mess.
And this mound won't untangle itself.
I am not me,
not who I want to be.
Let's take me down from that ***** shelf.
It's a fit to clean off,
but I have faith in myself.

From where I stand,
I can see who I really am.
It's me on a mountain peak,
it's me as a white sunbeam.
Won't I let the right things
take me to who I am?
Won't I close my eyes
and run there as hard as I can?

So I'll make the plans,
and take them in.
I'll finish them,
and I'll win.

I want to be what I can,
so much so that truth
will drip off my skin.
And you won't deny that this reality
is taking over me again.

Caraphernelia.
I understand the word at all times.
You left me things
that shutter my eyes.
And when I wake up,
there's too much light.
I stumble around,
trying to close the blinds.

Caraphernelia.
I comprehend it with all my might.
Bring me the things
that will cut open my soul.
And when I try to sleep at night,
I think of ways to make me feel whole.
But after my rest,
I forget my ideas and return to
the misery on my chest.

I miss you, distance-
where's all the space?
I miss you, closeness-
and all the density.
I miss you, voice-
that sound that softly rages.

I don't let myself speak,
so I hope tightly
that someday everyone
will move back to me.
And maybe we'll be happy.

I miss you, arms-
cover me and hug me.
I miss you, beauty-
when you're far and gone.
I miss you, circles-
the ones you draw on my shoulder.

I miss you, distance.
Come back to me.

Sins sit on my shoulders.
At first, I think they are just dust;
I try to sweep them off with a light brush.
Then I realize they are freckles,
blankly staring at me,
dirtying my clear, alabaster skin.
As I run my fingertips over them,
I find them feeling rough
like sandpaper or cement bricks.
I try to dig my nails underneath,
attempting to prop them up
the same way I would with
an easel and a picture
or an ottoman and my feet.
They are difficult to peel, though,
and I find that it takes a great struggle.
When I finally rip the sins off,
I toss them up in the air,
allowing them to float around
as I breathe in heavily,
sighing and relaxing,
thanking God's speed.
I forget, though,
that those freckles
float and sail like nomads,
wishing to come down a couple inches
and find themselves again on me.
I flinch and sway,
trying to keep most of them away.
But I become careless after a time,
and welcome one or two over to lay.
Back again on my shoulders,
back again come my fears,
once again I must pick and pull,
once again I look like a fool.
I acknowledge the distrust
that I lay in God's lap.
I see how my promises
highlight my acts of disobey.
These sins on my shoulders
restlessly play
as my fingers are scratching,
scratching away.

I stand in a giant cement driveway-
a driveway of trials and blessings.
I look at my green hands.
Green hands.
They hold a red brick.
Oh, how heavy the brick feels to me!
Since I am just a small grasshopper,
it feels impossible for an insect like me
to carry an object such as this.
It scratches my hands, my chest, fingertips.
And the weight drags my light body
to the cold ground.
Cold ground.
Sometimes a cold ground seems terrifying,
but it is almost a comfort to me.
My eyes dart from the ground to this brick.
Darting eyes.
My body wishes with all its strength
to shatter this brick against the cement..
But the driveway is my home.
A home for a grasshopper?
Shaking green hands.
Shivering cold ground.
Raging darting eyes.
Help me hold this brick.

Blossom is the word of the day.
I am imagining it
as I stand in the hallway.
I am on the hardwood floor
but I see something else around me.
There's fog
and blossoms.
I'm walking on a balancing beam,
stretching across to and from
somewhere I don't know.

And again in my room.
I am standing in a place I don't know,
but I feel special and beautiful doing so.
That's "light."

I search for my dreams inside cabinets
I open them one by one
And rummage through
Plates, table cloths, knives, and bowls
Trying to find the one
That only my sister it holds

On this dream I lay heavily
Until I flatten it with the weight
Of my concern
This particular dream
picked me up by my feet
And slammed me onto the asphalt
Repeatedly
Until my tears for it conjured up a canal
And I floated down it with my sisters bowl
Until this gap wasn't a hole.

Sometimes I wonder if my memories
are just dreams.
If they're things I made up;
they didn't happen to me.
If I gave myself years and years of pure dishonesty-
compulsively redeciding what my past should be.
Did all those events, conversations, lies
never even take place,
and how can I be sure?
What if these things I'm remembering
never even occurred?
What if I'm crazy and nobody has told me?
What really happened all these years?
Did I not have to shed all those tears?
Maybe I danced and sang like a little child would-
was the world happy and feel as it should?
Was I taken hostage and never let go?
Am I in this room right now,
or is this just a mind show?
Where am I at,
and where have I been?
Does that affect where I'm going and who I am?

It looks like overcast,
but it's just smoke that's trapped.
I've been waiting days,
months,
oh, so many days.
I've been waiting for the sky to clear,
so that I can finally see some blue.

The times when I don't feel like I can
is when I can the most.

I can climb through the wind if I want,
and the rain won't pummel me down.

I can walk a thousand leagues,
and the devil won't get to me.

I can stand like a glass jar,
I won't tip.

Where I am and where I stand,
it's impossible for my knees to bend in.

I smile and hope
that this temporary confidence will stay.

It feels strange being here.
This house is strewn and divided.
A part of it is empty, cold, and red,
another is empty, cold, and blue.

What happened in this house
has left us all confused.
We are jumbled and collided
strewn and divided.

Honestly, we came here to fight this war.
But, oh, it's such a ****** war.
Can't you feel the confusion?
Where are my men?
Am I still following my king closely,
or is that a beast in disguise?

Really, we came here to fight this war.
But, oh, it's such a gruesome war.
Can't you feel that pain in your side?
Where's the medical camp?
Am I on my way there,
or am I making this wound worse still?

Seriously, we came here to fight this war.
But, oh, it's such a difficult battle.
Can't you imagine explaining this to someone?
Could you even put this sight into words?
Let's just hope we make it out alive.
Don't fall too close to the ground.

Do you realize what the enemy has done?
Fill your body with the will to fight.
Pour it in your legs, up your body, to your throat,
just like you would with a glass and water.

Remember what this means.

This is trust.
When we take naps.
Arms rest
around us.

Eyes dead.
Thoughts led.
And our hearts beat.

Dream of conquering.
Dream of winning.
When our lives and peace wed.

Eyes dead.
Thoughts led.
And our hearts beat.

This is trust.

Would you beat your body with your own fists?
Would you scream aloud at yourself for what you did?
Then why do you let your thoughts take control?
Why do you so easily allow your anger to take the fall?
There's a fine line between love and abuse.
That's something we should explore and choose.
It's so easy to taunt ourselves with the things we lose.
It's what we do, whether we beg or refuse.
The truth is that loving is the hardest part,
but cruelty is the roughest.
If the world was perfect,
we would acknowledge the distinction between the two.
We'd live happily as self-love makes the rules.
We would bend and break as we always do,
but the consequences wouldn't offend us as much
or be as crude.
There's a fine line between love and abuse.
The difference is the flight we take,
the ride we want,
and the weakness we fake.
It's a lifeless game,
this life we live.
So when you sin and sin,
will you beat your body with your own fists?
And when the times get hot and out of control,
will you talk yourself out of grace and forgiveness?